Friday, April 15, 2016

Transparent Dreams


I dreamed I was a vendor at a craft fair. My assigned place was a card table on a sidewalk. The other vendors were in a row of ten-foot-long folding tables on the street; we were separated by a wide grass median and a line of parked cars.

As soon as I unfolded my table, an old, toothless woman appeared and began berating me about the futility of those nylon straps that tether a baby's toy to her stroller. "I don't make those," I told her. As I laid out my first quilt - a pink and white queen-sized quilt with a hand-appliqued alphabet, priced at $99 - the toothless lady said it was nice but far too expensive. I calmly told her I thought it was reasonable for me to expect to take home $1 per hour of work. Look at all those tiny stitches!

Many people crowded around, simultaneously admiring my work and getting in my way, putting their drinks and large boxes on my table, but none of them stood up to the old lady who kept yelling at me.

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I dreamed I was traveling alone in India. I picked up a package of food or something and noticed that the label listed every company who had put money into the manufacturing of that product and ever individual who had labored to create it. I thought this was a brilliant, progressive approach to packaging - one that I would like to see applied to American politics - but I had nobody to share that idea with.

At that moment I looked around for a restroom and saw a sign for one on a nearby door. That door actually led to a hotel pool deck where college students were celebrating spring break; it was 6am, so it must have been the tail end of the evening. A policeman directed me back out that first door and told me to make a sharp left to find the restroom.

Through another door, also marked Women's, was a beautiful hiking trail along a reservoir. This brought me to a small concrete plaza with two staircases: the Up staircase led to a pedestrian bridge to lower Manhattan, the Down staircase led to several lines of the NYC subway system. As I tried to plot the cheapest and most efficient route to get to East 63rd Street, a tourist appeared, desperately confused as to how she would go north. I didn't really know where I was, but I knew that the A train goes uptown, so I confidently told her to head for the train station. Then I went back to figuring out if I would have to pay for a subway ride when I eventually crossed the pedestrian bridge, and if it would therefore be pointless to walk across.

I never found the ladies' room.